


Lift

by RurouniHime



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Olympics, Established Relationship, Ice Skating, M/M, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:06:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames and Arthur are figure skaters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lift

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little self-indulgence because the guys were just KILLING me during the Sochi men's short program the other night. So much heart... *weeps*

The instant he cranks the triple axel, Eames know he’s out. Not only that, he’s _done._ His familiar shadow of three years stabs straight up out of the dark, numbing his legs from knees to toes. He’s only just been outrunning it; already old by most standards at 34, he’s pushed as far as his surgery-ridden spine will carry him.

The coast to the referee’s table feels both brief and endless.

On the side of the rink, Eames presses ice to his back and waves the trainer away, gasping. “Watching him skate.” Then he’ll go back, lie down, face the arrival of the inevitable end.

But not yet. Tonight, Arthur will certainly win. Eames can feel it.

Until Arthur falls.

First jump, quad toe loop, catches both picks and sends him right to the ice. Arthur’s hip takes the brunt, and he rockets into the wall, denting the padding. Arthur folds immediately, knees curled up, a hand tight over his side, and Eames’ heart freezes.

“No,” he breathes, “oh, Arthur, no.”

Arthur gets to his knees slowly. The pain on his face… Eames hasn’t seen it since the fall in Bucharest.

“God, not both of us.” Not Arthur, who can strip this field with a look, who floats, who decides he’ll fly and then _does_ it. But Eames sees it in Arthur’s face: it’s over. Too much. He’ll skate to the table himself now. Bow out. There will be no gold tonight for either of them. The emptiness, thus far resigned but ready, burrows deep into Eames’ chest with claws he never expected. Echoes.

As Arthur gets to his feet at last, bent over to cradle his side, the crowd erupts. It’s a desperate sort of yelling, the kind not ready to endure the same blow again. Eames bends over the barrier, squeezes the foam underneath, sees Arthur go absolutely still.

A tiny flare slithers up.

“Come on,” Eames whispers, the ice pack a frigid patch against his back. “Come on, darling.” 

Arthur’s first glide is stilted. He’s lost a fourth of the music, but his feet turn as if they’ve been listening, always listening. Arthur skates, not toward the table, but to the center of the rink.

When he jumps this time, he lands it perfectly. Spins into the next. Lands. The dark line of moisture on his shirt flashes by, shrinking with every spin, and the crowd goes wild. They clap, finding the beat, pacing Arthur’s step, and Arthur... My god, he spins like he never has, tight and sharp. Eames can see the pain in it, but instead of stifling, it blooms in Arthur’s movements, cuts the last nerves free.

Arthur sails.

By the time Arthur lands his triple axel, Eames’ face is wet. There’s not a camera on him. Just Arthur, fragile fierceness in every swivel, every leap. Every arc. The crowd roars, covers the music over, keeps the beat with their hands.

As soon as the music ends, Arthur folds over again and grips his side, his face a rictus. He skates stiffly to the barrier, retrieving a bouquet with trembling fingers. Pauses and waves, looking so tired, and shocked, broken open with wonder. The sound swells further, the waving of hats, flags, scarves and jackets. For the first time since the fall, Arthur smiles.

He makes his way off the ice, taking a cautious hug from his coach, and Eames tosses his ice pack aside, limps over as quickly as his body will let him. Ten yards away, Arthur watches him come, eyes glistening. Eames takes his face in both hands and strokes his cheeks, and Arthur just leans in, presses his mouth to Eames’ shoulder and holds him tighter than anything.

Until now, no one knew about them. No one knew about careful rivalry, shared homes and commitment and muses. But if Arthur doesn’t care, Eames doesn’t either.

“Gorgeous,” Eames croaks. Arthur only nods. He turns his face into Eames’ neck and squeezes him even tighter.

Eames gets Arthur into his arms properly and then the noise is just deafening.

~fin~


End file.
